Blood & Iron
by erpsicle
Summary: AU. After ten years of peace, the Ripper has returned to terrorize London. When a young vampire is framed for a murder he did not commit, his only hope of survival rests in the hands of a Hunter. Pairings will include GerIta, SpaMano, USUK. Rated M for gore and NSFW content in future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Arthur**

31 August 1898

London

...

It was all too bloody familiar. The East End alleyway, the muffled quiet, his people moving about like shadows in the depressing grey drizzle; it was all exactly the same as last time. Christ, even the girl's hair was the same, and how many girls in Whitechapel had hair like that? Arthur didn't like it. Not one bloody bit.

Scowling, he tweaked at his coat collar and started to fumble for his cigarettes. He had managed to secure one between his teeth and was formulating a plan to keep it lit in the miserable weather when a figure emerged from beneath the makeshift canvas tent, which was keeping the worst of the rain off the crime scene, and ducked under the police cordon.

The figure sidestepped around a passing officer and jogged towards him, shoulders hunched against the rain. Arthur grunted out a terse greeting, wrestling with his matches.

"Morning, sir," Alfred replied, coming to a halt in front of Arthur with a brisk salute. Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The boisterous American had been doing that since his arrival at the Yard, and nothing Arthur could say would persuade him to stop. It was a habit, he said. That had been nearly two months ago, and despite Arthur's hopes to the contrary there seemed to be no signs of him Growing Out Of It any time soon. He supposed it wasn't all bad having at least one of his detectives treat him with some respect – or in Alfred's case, awe – but the American really could be frustratingly exuberant sometimes.

"I thought you'd given that up, sir," Alfred said cheerily, gesturing to the cigarette Arthur was still struggling to light. Arthur glanced at him. Alfred smiled, but it seemed strained. He was clearly making a valiant attempt at his usual bright demeanour, but not quite pulling it off. Still, he had to be commended for trying. Arthur didn't know what kind of things the young detective had seen back in America, but he doubted it could have been anything like… that. He would never admit it, but Arthur was impressed and even more absurdly a little proud that Alfred seemed to be handling this so well. A little pale perhaps, a little shaken, but determined.

"Sir?"

Arthur realised he had been staring too long, and still had not answered. "What?"

Alfred gestured again and this time the smile he gave seemed a little more genuine. "Smoking, sir. I thought you'd given it up."

Arthur blinked. Had he really said that? Blast. "Ah," he said, returning the now soggy matchbox to his coat pocket. "So I have. Right." He plucked the unlit cigarette from his lips and gave it a long, mournful look, before dropping it to the ground and placing his foot over in with a sigh.

Alfred laughed. "You'll thank me someday, sir."

"I don't doubt it," Arthur said dryly. "I had better start saving for a gift basket. Flowers are hellishly expensive these days."

Alfred laughed again, and pushed a few locks of damp hair out of his eyes. He couldn't be sure in the dim light, but Arthur fancied his cheeks looked slightly pink. Now _that_ was interesting. "That really isn't necessary, sir. I'd be happy with chocolate."

The corner of Arthur's lips twitched. "Noted. Now, where is Williams? I want his thoughts on the body."

Alfred's smile vanished. "Oh, uh, he's…" he grimaced. "He's not doing too good, sir."

There was a retching sound from behind the tent, and Alfred looked apologetic.

"I see," Arthur said. "Fetch him please, Jones."

"Yes, sir."

Arthur watched as Alfred darted back towards the tent, and started to pat his pockets before he realised what he was doing and gave a short, bitter laugh. "Given up," he muttered, a hand fishing briefly in his pocket before emerging triumphant, clutching a toothpick. He put the pathetic thing between his teeth and bit down ruefully. "Oh well done, Arthur. Brilliant idea. Sunny as a bunch of roses."

Roses… His cheeks warmed briefly. Why had he said that earlier – about buying flowers for Alfred? He had thought himself terribly clever and witty at the time, but now… and Alfred's reaction… but he had been joking, hadn't he? Good God, he didn't think Arthur had been serious, did he? As brash as the American was, at times he could be nigh unfathomable. He spoke so openly – and so _much!_ – that Arthur sometimes had trouble weeding out the bits that he wasn't meant to take seriously. It was maddening.

Arthur chewed his toothpick vehemently. God he needed a cigarette. Why was he even thinking about this? A woman was lying dead not ten feet away, and here he was, tying himself in knots over a snippet of conversation that Alfred had probably already forgotten about. The whole thing was ridiculous – no, it was bloody _shameful_. Was he Chief Inspector Kirkland, head of this investigation, or wasn't he?

Yes he bloody well was. So, after filing away the exchange with his charming young detective – er, that is, with _Alfred_ – er, meaning, with _Detective Inspector Jones_ – in the cabinet at the rear of his brain marked 'Agonise Over Later', Chief Inspector Kirkland adjusted his collar and sloped forward through the rain.

Alfred reappeared as he drew up to the canvas tent, accompanied by a slightly green-faced Detective Matthew Williams.

"Alright, Williams?" Arthur said, ignoring the amused look Alfred was giving the now slightly bent toothpick. Matthew made a wobbly attempt at a salute.

"Been better, sir," he said politely.

"Think you can stand another look?"

Arthur had never seen the colour leave a man's face so quickly. Matthew looked as though he might have keeled over if Alfred hadn't had an iron grip on his arm. "I…"

"This isn't the worst you'll see, Williams," Arthur said, not unkindly. "Atrocities are our jam and bread. May as well get used to it, eh?"

Matthew didn't answer, but after a moment he straightened up a bit and nodded, his face still pale but somehow hardened with a quiet determination that made him look even more like Alfred than usual, if that were possible. Arthur grinned around his toothpick and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "Right then. Once more into the breach." And with that he lifted the oilskin curtain and ducked into the tent.

Despite what he had told Matthew, Arthur didn't really believe that one could ever just Get Used To It – and that was how it should be. Being able to recognise inhumanity confirmed that his own humanity, while having taken a beating over the years, was still intact. The day his job stopped making him sick to his core would be the day he retired.

Today was not that day.

Just like last time, it was the smell that hit him first. Back then he had written it off as the smell of the corpse – a rusty warmth, a sour-sweet tang, earthy and organic. But he had seen a thing or two since then, and now he knew better. There was nothing natural about this smell. It was _old_; the woman spread-eagled in the mud could not have been more than twenty, and her body was only now beginning to cool – hardly long enough to raise much of a stink. This in itself was enough to give Arthur more than a few misgivings.

Alfred and Matthew had entered quietly behind him. When he stole a glance at them, he found Alfred staring at the woman with an expression caught somewhere between mournfulness and anger, fists clenched as though he could beat the injustice from the world. Matthew, fighting back another wave of vomit, had developed a sudden overwhelming fascination with the rear wall of the tent. At least some of the colour had returned to his cheeks - even if that colour _was_ green.

Arthur cleared his throat. Misgivings were all very well and good, but he had to be sure. Matthew had gone through medical school. He knew about bodies; how they should work when they were alive, and how they should look when they're dead. He wasn't their official coroner, true, but Arthur would choose young Matthew over that Swiss creep Zwingli any day of the week.

"The crime scene's down here, Williams," he said gently, gesturing to the floor. "I want your opinion on this."

Matthew looked stricken. "I don't think I'm going to be of much use, sir…"

"I'll be the judge of that, if you don't mind," Arthur said. Matthew swallowed, nodding once, stiffly, before peeling his eyes from the stained canvas.

"The – uh – the deceased appears to be in her early twenties," Matthew began falteringly, Adam's apple bobbing beneath the pale skin of his throat. His eyes darted briefly to Arthur, who nodded a mute 'go on'.

"Her face has been mutilated," he went on, crouching to gesture at the body. He seemed to have drawn some courage from the brief glance he had exchanged with Arthur, because his voice strengthened as he went on. "Probably with the same knife that caused the incisions to the neck, here and here, severing every major blood vessel. She would have bled out in minutes. And the single incision here, running the length of the abdomen. Her – uh – Alfred? My bag… gloves in the front pocket… yes, thank you. Her uterus and… heart have been removed. The cuts are clean and there seems to be no damage to any of the other organs, so whoever did this knew what they were doing."

Arthur gnawed thoughtfully at his toothpick. "A surgeon, then."

"Not necessarily," Matthew said. "Any kind of doctor would have the knowledge required to do this. A medical student, or someone with steady hands and enough interest in the subject to pick up a text book. Even a butcher…"

"A butcher?"

Matthew nodded. "A human isn't really all that different from a pig, once you open it up. From an anatomical point of view at least," he added when Alfred made an affronted noise. "Obviously the moral implications are somewhat less ambiguous. What I'm saying is that whoever did this has an intimate knowledge of human anatomy. Where he got it from is open to speculation."

Arthur suppressed a sigh. "Alright. Tell me about the knife."

"The knife?" Matthew ran his eyes over the body. "Well, there's not much to be said about it, really. Not a scalpel – the edges of the incisions are too rough – but more than that…" he shrugged apologetically. "Sorry sir."

Arthur wasn't quite sure how much he wanted to tell them at this point, but this was important. "But it's definitely a knife?" he pressed.

Matthew glanced at him in surprise. "What else could it be, sir?"

Arthur could feel Alfred looking at him as if he had gone mad. He ignored him. "You tell me."

Matthew's questioning gaze remained on him a second longer, then returned to the body. "I – I don't know what else it could be," he floundered. "It _has_ to be a knife, nothing else coul-"

"Is there something you aren't telling us, sir?" Alfred cut in abruptly. The question had been innocent enough, but when Arthur turned he found Alfred staring at him with an alarmingly keen intensity.

Blast. Was he really so transparent?

"We've heard the others talking," Alfred went on. "And we've both read the case files. This is his M.O., right? He cuts the girl's throat, guts her, and hacks off her face."

Matthew winced. "Alfred, please."

"It's the Ripper again," Alfred finished triumphantly, barrelling right over Matthew's discomfit. "He's back."

Arthur let the words hang between them for a long, long moment, before nodding stiffly.

"It appears so."

"But… he died, didn't he?"

Arthur and Alfred both turned to look at Matthew as he stood up. His gloves were red with viscera, and he peeled them off carefully.

"The Ripper, I mean. He was killed. That's what it says in the case file."

_That case file says a lot of things_, Arthur thought darkly, _and very few of them are true. No one would have believed the truth. I'm still not entirely sure I do, and I was _there. "It seems we were mistaken," he added aloud. "Either that, or we have a very dedicated copycat on our hands."

"But you don't think so, sir?"

Arthur sighed. "No, Alfred. Unfortunately I do not."

Alfred opened his mouth, but whatever he might have said was interrupted when the oilskins parted and the rain-streaked face of one of the local officers appeared between them. He had a harassed look, and Arthur suppressed a groan of foreboding. He knew that look. He knew it far too well.

"Excuse me, er, Detective Inspector Kirkland?"

Oh, gods, he hoped he was wrong. He gave the man as piercing a look as he could manage. "Yes, what is it?"

"There's, er… there's someone here to see you. He seemed, er… quite eager." He stared at Arthur beseechingly.

Arthur relented. Making things difficult at this point would only be forestalling the inevitable. "I'll be out shortly," he said in resigned tone. The officer looked as though he might have wept with relief and quickly ducked out of the tent.

"This shouldn't take long," Arthur said, moving to follow him. "Canvas the area, see if you can dredge up a witness or two. I don't expect you'll find any, but it does no harm to try, eh?"

The oilskins slapped into place on the dual cries of "Yes, sir!" as Arthur stepped out into the rain, turning up his collar as he did so. The sun must have been properly up by now, but it was so cunningly hidden behind mile upon mile of grey precipitation that you wouldn't have known it. He began to jog towards the mouth of the alley, scanning what he could see of the opposing street for his… what had the man said? _Eager_ _visitor_. He laughed mirthlessly to himself. Gods, he would kill for a cigarette.

He reached the mouth of the alley and came to a halt, casting a reluctant look up and down the adjoining street. He had almost begun to hope that his visitor had thought better of it, when-

"_Bonjour, Detective_!"

A figure was waving enthusiastically at him from the other side of the street – he could have sworn it had been empty a moment ago, but he had learned long ago to forego logic when it came to dealing with this particular individual.

For a brief, glowing moment he considered pretending he had not seen the man and simply strolling back the way he had come, but the way he was waving – dear God what was that _thing_? It looked like a frilly mushroom – was already attracting an unfortunate amount of attention from the other officers. There was nothing for it.

_Courage, Arthur_, he told himself as he crossed the street, with the air of a man taking his final steps up to the gallows. _Just find out what he wants, and for God's sake keep your temper…_

"Good morning, dear Arthur!" the Frenchman beamed as Arthur approached, seemingly oblivious to the rain. Arthur grunted in response. At least he had stopped waving that horrific thing, which as Arthur drew closer revealed itself to be an umbrella, though it was such a glaring shade of pink and so decked in frills that it was hardly recognisable as one. On second thought, he supposed it was a fitting accessory for a man wearing something as offensive as a royal blue suit – good Lord, was that _velvet_? Arthur eyed the umbrella warily, coming to a halt just outside its lacy circumference as though he feared it would bite him.

"Ah yes, it is quite lovely, is it not?" the man said, apparently mistaking Arthur's disgusted look as one of appreciation. "Sadly it is not mine; I borrowed it from a most gracious young woman as we passed one another. This English weather." He shook his head pityingly, as if he could imagine nothing worse.

"There is nothing wrong with English weather, Bonnefoy," Arthur said defensively, just as the sky opened and the drizzle became a downpour.

"Of course not," Francis said unctuously, smiling down at him. It was a moment before he realised he had jumped reflexively into the shelter of Francis' hideous umbrella.

Bloody hell, it _was_ velvet. "Oh, bugger off," he grumbled. "Why are you here?"

If Arthur's withering glare bothered him, Francis didn't show it. If anything his grin merely widened. "My dear Arthur, I should think that would be obvious."

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, glancing briefly back towards the crime scene.

"I was right, then. It's all happening again."

"I'm afraid so." Arthur didn't think he sounded afraid at all.

"No need to sound so gleeful, Bonnefoy," he said tiredly. "People have died." When he looked back, Francis was examining his nails.

"Oh, yes. They always have, and will continue to."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Who said anything about liking it?" At least he had the decency to look affronted this time. "Do you think I _enjoy_ this?"

Arthur raised a doubtful eyebrow. Francis pressed a hand to his chest, adopting a wounded expression.

"My dear Arthur!" he cried. "How could you think such things of me? You of all people should know that my first and foremost concern has always been – and always will be – the safety of the _people_!"

"Oh, yes," Arthur said scathingly. "And how much do want for securing our safety this time, O wise and compassionate protector?"

Francis let out a wounded yelp, clutching his heart. "Arthur! That you would even entertain the thought of my wanting compensation for what is my civic duty – and indeed, my absolute and unending pleasure – why, it is enough to break my heart!"

Arthur was unmoved by this spiel. It was nothing he had not heard before. "How much, Bonnefoy?" he repeated tiredly.

Francis regarded him mournfully. "A mere pittance," he said at last, waving a hand dismissively. "No, wait, let me speak," he added quickly, as Arthur scoffed and turned to leave.

"No, I don't think I will," Arthur threw over his shoulder as he ducked out into the rain, heading back towards the crime scene at a furious pace. He was being childish, he knew that, but he didn't much care and right now the nameless girl's mutilated corpse seemed like better company than the infuriating Frenchman behind him.

Francis caught up with him easily. "Arthur, dear, sweet, lovely Arthur. Look, I have to make a living somehow, don't I?"

"Oh? Has business in the underworld been slower than usual?" Arthur shot back, refusing to look at him. "Don't think I don't know what you really get up to under the cover of that precious little clock shop of yours."

"Oh, such lies, Arthur! They ill-befit the sweet curve of your lips. I am but an honest clockmaker."

"Clockmaker? Perhaps. Honest?" Arthur scoffed, ignoring the comment about his lips with practised ease. "_Please_."

"You wound me. Would you _listen_, you infuriating little man?" His patience finally reaching its limit, Francis seized Arthur by the arm and swung him round to face him. "Do you really think you can do this by yourself?"

Arthur shook off the Frenchman's hand. Of course he couldn't do this by himself; he was a thousand leagues out of his depth and he knew it. But still, prideful stubbornness dictated that he say, "I can try."

"Do that and I promise you will lose everything you hold dear."

Francis' uncharacteristically sober words sent a chill down Arthur's spine. "As long as I get this bastard off the streets, I don't care what it costs."

As soon as he said it Arthur could taste the lie. And if he could taste it, god knew that French nose could smell it.

"Who is the liar now, dear Arthur?" Francis said quietly. "There is always something we could never bear to lose. Always."

Arthur was silent. Francis took this as leave to continue.

"Listen," he said gently. "There is no shame in accepting help when it is needed. And it is certainly needed," he added with a short laugh. "As for payment, well, we shall worry about that afterwards. I promise it is something you will not even miss. In fact, I won't be taking anything from _you_ at all."

Well _that_ didn't seem at all suspicious. In all the time he had known him, Francis had never just done something for nothing. Just what the devil was he supposed to make of it? Not that he had much choice but to trust him. As distasteful as that prospect was, the alternative was even more so. "Alright," Arthur said warily. "Fine. So, what are we going to do?"

"_Magnifique_," Francis beamed, producing a small roll of paper from a breast pocket. "You don't have to do anything. It is all taken care of. Here, Pierre." This was addressed to the small but incredibly fat white cuckoo that had emerged from beneath Francis' golden mop of hair. As Arthur watched, the bird took the paper in its beak, gave a muffled grumble, and launched off Francis' shoulder, quickly disappearing into the rain.

Arthur blinked. "Wait, what? What did you just do?"

Francis heaved a deeply exaggerated sigh. "Do try to keep up, Arthur. You need help, yes? And who better to help with this…" his fingers fluttered vaguely as he searched for the appropriate word. "_Singular_ situation, than our very own Brothers Grimm? Now, if that is all, I must return this charming umbrella to its owner. Such a shame…"

Francis was already moving away by the time the cogs of Arthur's brain had finished turning and he realised where the bird was going.

"Oh no, no, no, no you don't," he cried, striding after him. "You are not bringing _them_ here again. Not after what happened last time."

Francis turned on his heel, raising a free hand in a supplicating gesture. "I am sorry, my dear, but that bird has already flown. Literally."

"I won't have it!" Arthur raged. "That madman destroyed half the city by the time the Ripper was dealt with – do you have any idea of the expense? All the lies, the reports and files we had to fabricate to cover it all up? And for nothing, as it turns out! Call the bird back, or so help me I'll-"

"Uh, sir?"

"WHAT?" Arthur roared, wheeling around to face a suddenly terrified Alfred. Arthur's cheeks coloured immediately. "Er…" He could feel Francis' amused gaze on him, adding even more fire to his face. "Yes, Jones? What is it?"

"Oh, uh, it's nothing, sir," Alfred faltered, stepping away quickly. "It can wait."

"No," said Arthur and Francis simultaneously.

"Shame on you, Arthur," Francis berated, "hiding away all the beautiful young men, without thinking to share. Though I can see why he would want to. I am Francis Bonnefoy, a friend of dear Arthur's," he added, ignoring Arthur's indignant sputters to step forward and extend his hand to the befuddled young detective.

Alfred shook it dazedly. "Uh, Alfred Jones," he replied. "Detective Inspector Alfred Jones."

Francis smiled wolfishly. "_Enchanté_."

Arthur didn't at all like how Francis was looking at Alfred; it set something on fire in the twist of his gut and oh gods, did he really just _wink_? Right, time to put a stop to this before things really got out of hand. "Francis was just leaving," Arthur cut in loudly. "Weren't you, Francis?" he added, pouring as much sweet venom into the words as he could muster. _Play along you French bastard or it will be your corpse I'm hiding away…_

"Alas, the tiny Englishman is right," Francis conceded with another of his ridiculous sighs. "I have a pressing engagement that must be fulfilled. _Au revoir_, dear Alfred. I do not doubt that we will meet again _very_ soon." He winked again, and with that he turned and moved off through the rain, waving a languid hand in farewell. In another moment he had rounded the corner of the street and was gone.

Arthur released a pent up sigh and dragged the back of his hand across his eyes. "Sorry about that, Jones," he managed. "Francis can be a bit much at the best of times."

Alfred laughed. "No, it's fine. He's an old friend of yours?"

"You could say that." They began to walk back to the cordon. "He's been helping the Yard in one way or another since before I was your age. A right pain in the arse, but useful."

"Really? That's weird. He doesn't look much older than you."

Arthur gave him a Look. "And how old would that be?" he asked coolly.

Alfred almost tripped. "Oh, I – uh… I didn't mean-"

"Steady on, Jones. I know what you meant. It's something in that French food, probably. Frogs' legs or something. Makes them nigh immortal."

"Blimey," Alfred breathed. Arthur could almost see him mentally adding frogs to his weekly grocery list, but he didn't have the heart to tell him that he had been joking. It was oddly endearing, the way he trusted Arthur so completely.

But when he thought about how utterly he was betraying that trust with every second he spent avoiding the truth – the whole truth, terrifying in its enormity and oh gods where would he even _begin_? – that feeling of endearment quickly turned sour. It would have to be soon. A woman was dead, Francis had emerged from whatever seedy underworld hole he had been hiding in, and the wheels had been set in motion. Soon they would all be caught up in it, whether they were ready or not.

"We canvased the area like you said, sir," Alfred said abruptly, startling Arthur out of his brood. "We didn't find anything. All the surrounding buildings are boarded up. It doesn't look like anyone's lived here in years…"

Arthur nodded absently. The East End had emptied after the last time the Ripper had torn through here, Whitechapel haemorrhaging its people into the surrounding boroughs and turning whole blocks of housing into hard, vacant skins. Some of the buildings had been torn down and rebuilt, at an almost painful pace of two, maybe three a year, but few wanted to return. The whole place was haunted now; a graveyard, home to the mad and the desperate. Arthur wondered vaguely which category their dead girl belonged to. Would anyone lament her death?

"Looks like the rain is easing," Alfred said brightly. Arthur glanced up.

"Yes, so it is. Thank God for small miracles, eh?"

"Yeah. Maybe it's a sign. You know, that things are looking up."

Alfred's smile cut into Arthur's already guilty soul like a knife. _He honestly believes that, doesn't he? That things will actually get better. _Arthur wondered what it must be like to have that kind of faith. Nice, he supposed.

"Perhaps," he conceded as they ducked under the cordon. "Where's Williams got to?"

"Matthew? Oh, he was taking another look at the body. That whole knife thing really got under his skin." Alfred shrugged and turned to drum his knuckles on the wall of the tent. "Hey Matt, you still in there?"

"Yeah," came Matthew's muted reply. "And I think I might have found something. Is the Chief with you?"

"Yeah, he's here."

"I – uh, I think he ought to see this."

Alfred exchanged a quizzical glance with Arthur, before wordlessly pulling aside the makeshift door.

"You too, Jones," Arthur said as he ducked into the tent. Alfred's eyes lit up, and he followed quickly.

"What have you got, Williams?" Arthur asked, as soon as they were all inside.

Matthew brushed his hair out of his eyes with the back of a glove. "I'm not entirely sure, sir. I had a feeling that there was something odd about the throat wounds, but it wasn't until you asked about the knife that I thought to take a closer look. And I found this," he finished breathlessly, holding up a small evidence bag.

Arthur took it carefully. There wasn't much to be seen in the dim light apart from a small red smear in the bottom of the bag. He peered at it blankly.

"Tell me what I'm looking at, Williams."

Matthew swallowed. "It's a tooth, sir. Or rather, a splinter from a tooth."

"Not the victim's?"

Matthew shook his head. "All intact."

They were both looking at him, waiting for the explanation that he surely had. And he did have it. This was it, the final piece. The wheels were well and truly turning now, and he could either keep waiting and be crushed, or take the leap.

It was hardly a choice at all.

Wordlessly pocketing the evidence, Arthur spat the chewed-up remains of the toothpick onto the floor and reached for his cigarettes.

"Tell me, boys," he began conversationally. "How much do you know about vampires?"

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Aaaaaah it's so good to be writing again! Please forgive any inaccuracies, I'm not an expert on Victorian London, crime scene investigation, or forensic pathology... but if there is anything too glaring please let me know and I'll do my best to fix it! Poor Arthur... for those who are wondering (probably no one), yes, jibes about his height are probably going to become a running gag. Oops?

Anyways I'm so excited about this fic like you have no idea. I have the first couple of chapters planned out already, so expect the next one in a couple of weeks. No spoilers, but I will tell you that it will be from Ludwig's perspective, like this one was from Arthur's. I'll be switching perspectives with each chapter, so if you aren't down for that then, well, tough nuts. But don't worry, no first-person perspectives here my friends.

Thanks for reading and please review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Ludwig**

The first thing a Hunter learns to notice about a vampire is the smell. It's a smell of in-betweens, instantly attributable to a creature that is neither human nor animal, living nor dead. It is foul, like the tang of rancid meat, and yet as dry as old bones. It is fevered, like plague-sweat, yet as cold as the Reaper's hand. But above all, a vampire reeks of inhuman madness.

Something had been stealing sheep from the nameless farming village on the outskirts of the _Schwarzwald_ for some months now. The villagers had blamed wolves until the stolen sheep started reappearing, uneaten, their throats torn out and their life's blood mysteriously drained. When the farmer was found in his bed, killed in a similar fashion, they were forced to admit that something not quite natural was at work. Like fog from the mountains, evil had descended on their village. And with it came the Brothers.

No one ever sent for the Brothers; they simply came, always arriving precisely when and where they were needed. Some called it magic, others Providence.

Ludwig called it a Frenchman with a God complex and far too much time on his hands.

In any case, as the farmer's body was being discovered by his young farmhand, the Beilschmidt brothers strolled into the village with their guns on their shoulders and the rising sun at their backs. After a look at the dead sheep and another at the dead farmer, they knew one thing for sure: wolves most definitely had not done this. They knew this because, first of all, wolves didn't leave leftovers. They didn't open doors, either. Second, the whole village reeked to the high heavens of vampire.

A few hours later they knew that the vampire in question was an old female with a tangled mess of iron-grey hair and nails like dirty meat-hooks. They knew _this_ because they were chasing her – and she wasn't making it easy.

Ludwig swore as his third shot went wide and smacked into the trunk of a tree, scattering bark and pulp. He slowed down to reload, cursing his luck. He had been so close that time! The vampire hissed derisively and darted away, a second shot stirring a filthy lock of hair as it went whistling past her ear.

"Fuck she's quick," Ludwig heard Gilbert pant. A moment later Gilbert drew up beside him, reloading his own weapon. "Where'd she go now?"

"South again," Ludwig said wearily.

"Christ." There was an ugly scrape on Gilbert's forehead where he had run into a low-hanging branch, and Ludwig wasn't faring much better himself. While they were blundering around like hapless apes, running into trees and tripping on the uneven ground, the vampire knew every dip and rise in this godforsaken forest, every tree down to the last gnarled root, and it looked as though she had every intention of leading them on a merry chase through her dark home, pushing them beyond the point of exhaustion until they either gave up or ran out of ammunition. And it was working. "The bitch is leading us in circles," Gilbert spat in disgust.

"I hadn't noticed," Ludwig said dryly. He finished reloading and moved off, following the vampire's trail through the thick leaf-litter. Gilbert jogged silently beside him.

The hours dragged by, with little more to show for their passing than a rapidly shrinking stock of bullets. Soon they would be down to their knives, and with darkness coming on neither of them fancied the thought of having to use them. When night fell the vampire would be in her true element, doubling the already considerable advantage of facing them on her home ground. But the brothers had faced worse odds and beaten them, and now, finally, the tables seemed to be turning in their favour.

A screech went up as one of Gilbert's bullets clipped the vampire's shoulder. He gave a shout of triumph and Ludwig took aim, but before his finger could tighten around the trigger she had whipped out of sight amongst the trees. He put up his gun and tore after her, Gilbert close at his heels, following the pebbled trail of blood-spots. If they could catch her while she was still wounded, there was a chance they could finish her off before nightfall. A wounded vampire needed blood, and desperation bred stupidity. Victory was in the air…

And then the trail went cold as the blood-spots petered out and finally disappeared altogether, along with the last of the sun.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Gilbert said, throwing up his hands.

Ludwig was inclined to agree.

"If I ever see that smug bastard again," Gilbert snarled as they turned in circles, searching for a trail that no longer existed, "I'm going to wring his fancy fucking French neck. From now on, we stick to cities. No more of this middle-of-nowhere, peasant-arse-licking bullsh-_ARGH_!"

Ludwig whirled around, just in time to see a dark shape plummet onto Gilbert's back from the tree above. He raised his gun and took aim, but _Fuck, I can't see anything in this light! _His finger wavered over the trigger.

"God damn you, Lud!" Gilbert roared, reeling beneath the vampire's weight as she sank her teeth into the crook of his shoulder and began to rip at the flesh of his throat. "Fucking shoot the bitch already!"

Panic tore through Ludwig's heart like buckshot. "I don't have a clear shot!"

"Fuck that! Shoot me too if you have to, just _get her the bleeding fuck off me_!"

_Easy for you to say, brother_. Ludwig breathed out, and his finger tightened.

"Was that really so difficult?" Gilbert asked a moment later, shrugging the vampire's corpse off his shoulders. Ludwig's shot had blown her head clean open, and blood and brains were splattered across the side of Gilbert's face. He pressed a hand to the bite on his neck, wincing as blood welled between his fingers. "Christ, that stings."

Ludwig was beside him in a heartbeat. He dropped the gun and pulled Gilbert into his arms.

"Are you all right?" he asked, when he pulled away to look his brother over properly. "Gilbert, are you all right?"

Gilbert's strange maroon eyes regarded him with amusement through their fog of pain. "Look at you," he said quietly. "Playing mother hen to your big brother. It's cute." His laugh turned into a groan, and Ludwig grabbed him as his knees buckled.

"Ah, shit," Gilbert hissed, once Ludwig had him on his feet again. "I fucking hate vampires. Finish her off so we can get out of here, I need a drink."

"Not until I've had a look at that," Ludwig said, nodding at the bite.

"It can wait," Gilbert said dismissively, though his hand was almost black with blood and his face so pale it was spectral in the gloom. He backed into the nearest tree and eased himself onto the ground, before nodding at the vampire. "But _that_ can't. Off with the bitch's head, brother mine."

Ludwig sighed. His brother was a stubborn, crazy bastard, but he was right. Drawing his knife, Ludwig knelt and got to work.

When he next looked up, Gilbert's head had fallen against the bark of the tree. His face was ashen, his eyes closed. Ludwig's heart twisted painfully in his chest. _Damn him, I knew I should have checked that bite…_

"Gilbert?" he called. When Gilbert gave a groan in response, Ludwig's relief was such that his heart almost gave out.

"M'watch," Gilbert mumbled, fishing in his jacket pocket with his free hand. "Where is it?"

"Forget about the watch, brother," Ludwig murmured, crawling over to him. "Let me see your neck."

Gilbert ignored him. "Ah, here's the little bastard," he slurred. His hand came up gripping the chain of the pocket watch, which promptly slipped from his grasp. "Shit." His slick fingers clawed ineffectually in the leaf-litter, but with blood still pumping sluggishly from the wound in his neck even that small effort was enough to exhaust him. His head fell back against the bole of the tree.

"Shit," Ludwig echoed. "Gilbert? Gilbert! Oh, _God_…"

He struggled out of his jacket and tore a strip from the bottom of his shirt, holding it in his teeth as he pulled Gilbert's hand away from his throat. Ludwig wadded the strip and pressed it to the ugly wound, before tearing off a few more lengths to bind it tightly in place.

"Gilbert, you idiot," he muttered as he worked. "Why didn't you look up? You always look up."

Gilbert coughed. "Must be gettin' old. Now stop bitchin' and give me my goddamn watch."

Ludwig made a noise that got caught halfway between a laugh and a sob as he placed the watch in Gilbert's open hand, closing his brother's fingers around it. Gilbert breathed out and pressed the watch to his heart as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

Ludwig sat back on his heels, watching his brother concernedly. The watch had belonged to their grandfather, once upon a time, and Gilbert had always loved it. But something had changed. Ludwig didn't know exactly when or even why it had happened, but in the last few months that love had become something else, something bordering on obsession, and it worried him. Sometimes he wondered if this was the first sign that something inside Gilbert had finally snapped. God knew it was bound to happen eventually, after everything the man had been through.

After a while Gilbert's eyes snapped open and he began to struggle to his feet, still clutching the bloody pocket watch. "All right, Lud, you can stop mothering me now," he said, when Ludwig started to tell him to _sit the hell down_. "I can sleep when I'm dead. Where's the bitch's head?"

"Here." Ludwig hefted the grisly thing by a clump of hair and tossed it to him. "Merry Christmas." Gilbert caught it clumsily in one arm.

"And a happy New Year," he said, stuffing the head into a sack on his belt. "Now let's get back so I can shove this in someone's face and get us that goddamn drink."

They started off in what they were fairly sure was the direction of the village, Ludwig walking close beside his brother in case he stumbled – which he did, often. But whether it was Ludwig's presence, or Grandfather's old pocket watch, or some other magic that Ludwig could not name, Gilbert's strength seemed to increase with each step he took, and they made good time despite several wrong turnings in the dark. It couldn't have been much later than eight or nine o'clock by the time they left the dark edge of the _Schwarzwald_ and spilled out onto the village's single road, a dirt track more suited to sheep than humans. The lighted windows of a small _Bierhall_ shone out through the darkness, and Gilbert headed towards them like they were a beacon and he a man lost at sea. Ludwig trailed behind him. As glad as he was to be out of the forest, he had a fairly good idea of how this night would end.

Sure enough, as soon as Gilbert reached the tavern he shouldered the door open with enough force to send it crashing against the inside wall. Ludwig suppressed a groan and lengthened his stride to catch up with his brother before he could cause any more unnecessary damage.

"Evening, barkeep," Gilbert was saying brightly. He had pulled the sack from his belt and was brandishing it like a coin purse. "Two pints of your best, if you would be so kind!"

Ludwig put a hand on Gilbert's uninjured shoulder. "What are you doing?" he asked quietly. The occupants of the tavern had gone silent and were staring at them as if they were ghosts, or demons; Ludwig was suddenly painfully aware of just how bloodstained and filthy they were. His cheeks coloured slightly beneath the blood and grime when he realised that most of his shirt was now holding his brother's shoulder together, and he tugged self-consciously at his jacket.

"Getting us a drink," Gilbert hissed back. "And would you stop fussing? Look, the ladies love a beat-up man."

Ludwig glanced in the direction his brother was none-too-subtly indicating. Sure enough, a barmaid with dirty blonde plaits was eyeing him from across the room, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the tankard she had been in the process of filling was now quietly overflowing. His blush deepened.

"I'm not interested-" he began, looking away. There was a gasp followed by a muffled curse from the direction of the bar, which may have been caused by the barmaid catching him staring but more likely was due to her realising that she had just wasted good beer.

"Of course, silly me," Gilbert interrupted, hushing him. "Chop chop," he added in a louder tone, presumably for the benefit of the barkeeper, who hadn't moved. "It's not polite to keep your patrons waiting, especially when they've just done you the service of ridding your fleabitten dog's arse of a village of a vicious bloodsucking cunt! Bad for business, and all that."

"It's done then?" One of the villagers had got to his feet; Ludwig recognised him as the old man who had met them at the gates – such as they were – this morning. He supposed he was what passed for a mayor in a place like this. He had the defiant, slightly terrified look of the poor and simple when faced with a man like Gilbert. "You've killed the beast?"

Gilbert took a mocking bow. "Aye, we killed it. You'll sleep safe tonight thanks to us, grandfather."

"How do we know it was the beast you killed?" called out a man at the bar. He had a stubbled jaw and an ugly sneer. His companion, a thickset man with rust-coloured hair and the angriest moustache Ludwig had ever seen, gave a grunt of approval. Ludwig gave them both a measured look. They would be ones to watch. "That could be some poor wolf's head in that sack."

"More likely a sheep's," the moustachioed companion said. "Boys don't look as though they'd have the balls to skin a cat, let alone take the head off a wolf." They both laughed, and a few others joined in, albeit nervously.

Gilbert's eyes flashed dangerously, though his smile merely widened. Oh yes, Ludwig had been right about those two; they would be ones to watch. In fact, Ludwig would watch Gilbert beat them into the woodwork, and maybe, just maybe, if he were feeling charitable, he might step in and haul his brother away before he outright killed them. They were used to this sort of thing. It was part of the reason why their kind had stopped calling themselves Faerie Hunters several hundred years ago. It didn't matter how accurate your terminology was if you couldn't collect your paycheck without being sniggered at. The face Gilbert had made when the Frenchman suggested a resurrection of the original term would remain in Ludwig's memory for many years to come; as it had in Francis', apparently, because he hadn't mentioned it since.

"Is that so?" Gilbert was saying. "I had no idea the cats around here were so formidable." He looked back to the mayor, adopting a wounded expression. "You should have warned us, grandfather. We might have been _injured_!"

More nervous laughter, and a quickly stifled giggle from the barmaid, which Ludwig ignored.

"But if you need convincing," Gilbert went on, tossing the blood-soaked sack to the stubbled man. "Feel free to take a look." He caught it in both hands and immediately looked horrified that he had done so. Ludwig managed not to snort in amusement. He knew the type all too well; big men who talked a lot about killing, but couldn't stand the feel of blood on their clean skin. "Don't be shy now," Gilbert added, as what appeared to be the entire adult population of the village crowded around the stubbled man and his companion. "She won't bite. Not anymore, anyway."

He winked at Ludwig. "Idiot," Ludwig deadpanned.

"You love me."

"Shut the door. Were you born in a tent?"

"Cave, actually." He shut the door. "Happy now, mother?"

Ludwig was spared the act of dignifying that with a reply, because at that moment the villagers gave a collective gasp. The barmaid let out a little scream (which Ludwig ignored) as the stubbled but no longer quite so sneering man lifted up the head of the vampire by a fistful of its tangled hair. Rictus had already set in, drawing the creature's grey lips away from its inhuman teeth. The rest of the face had been obliterated by Ludwig's shot, but no matter; she hadn't been much to look at even in un-death, and in any case the teeth were the most important part; where the money was, so to speak.

There was a long moment of horrified silence, broken only by the sound of the vampire's head dripping sluggishly onto the bar. When the barkeeper finally cleared his throat, the village jumped.

"Two pints, was it, sirs?" he asked in a small voice.

"Of your best," Gilbert reminded him. "To begin with."

Ludwig followed him tiredly to the bar as the _Bierhall_ erupted with excited chatter, still steadfastly ignoring the barmaid who was now making unabashed eyes at him from the beer taps. This was going to be a long night.

.

Sitting at his own table to the rear of the tavern, Ludwig fiddled with the handle of his glass and made valiant and increasingly desperate attempts to ignore the barmaid who was still making persistent doll-eyes at him from across the room. Gilbert was at the bar, having a discussion with two other men that was growing steadily more heated. As usual, Ludwig's brother seemed determined to replace every last drop of liquid in his body with alcohol. It was a miracle he hadn't killed himself yet, but then he had always had an absurd amount of luck.

"Anything I can do for you, love?" purred a voice at Ludwig's ear. He turned and was immediately confronted by the largest pair of tits he had ever seen. He quickly averted his eyes, cheeks uncomfortably warm.

"No… thank you."

If the barmaid was at all put out by his declination, she didn't show it.

"Alright then, handsome. You call me if you change your mind."

Ludwig assured her, somewhat stutteringly, that he would. As soon as she had gone (deliberately giving him an excellent view of her generous behind), he took a too-large gulp of his beer and almost choked. God, why couldn't he have Gilbert's luck? He managed to get the beer flowing down the correct tube, then sat back and scowled at the dregs in the bottom of his glass. God this beer was awful. His whole body ached, and he was covered in a second skin of dried sweat, muck and blood. It was too loud here, and too warm, and God what he wouldn't give for a bath and a clean bed. And a new shirt, he added internally, tugging mournfully at the ruined cloth.

It was at that moment that the shouting started. Gilbert was on his feet, roaring incoherent abuse at one of the two men at the bar; the stubbled one, unsurprisingly. He had seized the unfortunate man by the collar, and Ludwig figured he had a fraction of a second before his prediction about peeling bodies out of the woodwork came to fruition.

So unimpressed by this whole evening was he that he almost considered just… letting it happen. But they had a reputation to uphold. It may not have been a very glowing reputation to begin with, but they had to at least try. "Ah, shit," he swore, vaulting over the table. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and caught Gilbert's fist in his just as it was about to let fly. It was a moment before Gilbert's drink-addled brains registered what had just happened, but when they did his face contorted into an ugly snarl.

"Lemme go," he slurred, releasing the man's collar to take a swing at Ludwig. He dodged it easily. "Goddamnyou Lud, I gotta teach this asshole a lesson."

Ludwig ignored him. "Sorry," he said gruffly to the man. The tavern had gone quiet. "He isn't usually like this."

"He's a fucking fraud, that's what he is," the man spat, rubbing his throat. "You both are! Coming in here with your cheap tricks, taking our money. Nothing but thieves and charlatans, that's what you are!" Gilbert made a noise like an angry dog and grabbed at him, but Ludwig tugged him back.

"We're not taking anything," Ludwig said calmly. "And as for our cheap tricks…" he turned to the barkeeper. "What did you do with that head? My friend here wants to have a closer look at our handiwork."

"Give't t'me, I'll shove it up th'bastard's arse," Gilbert raged.

The man visibly paled at that, but luckily for him the barkeeper replied, "Sorry, sirs, I put it outside. The smell was something awful."

Ludwig nodded. "All right then."

"You listen t'me, you slimy inbred son of a plague-rat's carbuncle," Gilbert powered on as if no one had spoken. "You should be thankin' us. You've not got the faintest fucking shadow 'f an idea what kinda shit is out there hungry f'your sorry hide. But I do. I've seen it. Haven't I, Lud? Shuddup. I've seen it and I've killed it a hundred different ways, an' that's a hundred fewer ways than I could kill you right now. So the next time you wake up without your throat ripped out, I want you to remember this face." He gestured in the general vicinity of his unfocussed, bloodshot eyes. "'Cause I'm all that stands between you and what's out _there_, understand?"

"Sorry," Ludwig repeated. The stubbled man shook his head slightly, a look of utter disbelief upon his face, before turning back to his companion and his beer. Gilbert slumped against Ludwig's shoulder, and a glance told Ludwig that he had fallen asleep. Well. That was a small miracle at least.

Half-carrying his comatose brother, Ludwig returned to his table and dumped Gilbert unceremoniously in the chair next to his.

"Whassappning?" Gilbert groaned as Ludwig sat down. He reached unsteadily for Ludwig's nearly empty glass, only to have Ludwig slide it out of his reach.

"Enough, Gilbert," Ludwig said over Gilbert's protestations. "Just… enough."

Gilbert regarded him blearily. "Who are you, my mother?"

Sometimes even Ludwig had trouble believing he was the younger brother.

"What are you doing, Gilbert?" he asked, though he doubted even Gilbert himself knew the answer. "You're going to kill yourself."

"Naw." Gilbert's head sank onto the table. "Not gonna happen, little brother. I got a twelve year contract, see?" He raised his hand, clutching his old pocket watch, and waved it in explanation.

Yeah, Gilbert was well and truly out of it. Ludwig left his brother snoring and went in search of something to sober him up.

After successfully avoiding an ambush by The Barmaid, Ludwig returned and plonked a full glass down in front of Gilbert.

"Wossat?" Gilbert asked, startling awake again. He peered suspiciously into the mug.

"It's water, Gilbert," Ludwig said tiredly, sitting down and returning his attentions to his own glass. "I am sure you have heard of it. Drink up."

Gilbert groaned, but did as he was told.

"'S weak as piss," he proclaimed, slamming the empty tankard back to the table a moment later. "Where's m'gun, I'm gonna shoot the fucker tha' soldyou this…"

"No you are not," Ludwig said levelly. "Anyway, it was free."

"A'ight," Gilbert said, and passed out again.

Ludwig sighed. This had been going on for some months now. After every hunt, Gilbert would drag them both through hell or high water to get to the nearest pub, tavern or greasy spoon, and proceed to get as drunk as a human could be without dying. It didn't matter how beaten or torn up they were, and it didn't matter how many drunken fights Ludwig had to pull his brother away from; Gilbert would get his money's worth and god help anyone who tried to get in his way. It didn't help that the liquor with which they were so generously provided was almost exclusively free of charge; unless, of course, you counted the skulls of the undead as currency (which some people did). Ludwig would remember that one job in Russia for a very, very long time to come.

It hadn't always been like this. Once upon a time the brothers had enjoyed a quiet drink by firelight, aching and bruised but satisfied with the day's work, comparing wounds and trying to one-up each other in their severity. Back when injuries like the one Gilbert had sustained tonight were few and far between, when Gilbert had been the most extraordinary Hunter Ludwig – or anyone for that matter – had ever known. He was still good, yes, but he was getting sloppy. More reckless. And that light in his eyes had become something much harder, blunted like old steel.

Ludwig watched his brother drooling onto the table and wondered, just when had Gilbert started to break? And how, by all the gods, had he not seen it until it was far too late to put him back together again?

At that point Ludwig's thoughts were interrupted by a shriek from The Barmaid. He looked up just in time to see the door to the tavern swing open on a sudden gust of wind and something small and white come hurtling through at quite an alarming rate. The thing barrelled over the villagers' heads and shot towards him like a feathery cannonball. Not sure whether to curse or applaud the Frenchman's sense of timing (as always), Ludwig raised a hand and plucked the bird out of the air just as it was about to implant itself in his right eye. The bird glowered at him, before spitting a rolled up bit of paper out of its beak.

"Tweet," it said in an alarmingly gruff voice.

"Hello, Pierre," Ludwig replied evenly, setting the small but enormously fat cuckoo down on the table before him. "How's London this evening?"

"Bloody miserable, but ain't that always the case," the bird said, while Ludwig retrieved his message from under the table. "Bloody Froggy had me flying the rain, the bastard. If I catch cold and die, it'll be his own bloody fault. He'd have to deliver his own sodding messages then; wouldn't that be a right laugh."

Ludwig hummed in agreement as he unrolled the message and skimmed his eyes over the words inside. As he read his brows drew in further and further, until he was glowering almost as fearsomely as the bird Pierre. Finally he sighed and, sitting back, tossed the paper at the bird's feet.

"He won't do it. Not this one."

"Doesn't seem like he's got much of a choice, though, dunnit?"

"There's always a choice. He won't go back there."

"If you think that, then you don't know him half as well as you think you do," Pierre said brusquely, preening a shoulder feather. "He won't have innocents dying on his account. Chirp." This last bit was added for the benefit of The Barmaid, who had chosen that moment to appear at Ludwig's shoulder with a glassy look in her eye.

"That's a cuckoo," she observed. "I've seen them around here. Never seen a white one before, though." She smiled dazzlingly at Ludwig. "He's such a beautiful boy," she breathed, bosoms heaving dramatically. Ludwig's train of thought cut out and was replaced briefly by a high-pitched buzzing sound. "Is he yours?"

"Uh, no," Ludwig managed, clearing his throat to cover up the sound of Pierre snorting at his evident discomfit. "No, er, he belongs to a friend of mine."

"Pity," she sighed.

"Fetch us a bit of birdseed, would ya, love? Chirp."

The Barmaid's smile faltered, and her eyes glazed over. "Oh, yes, of course."

"And a large whiskey while you're at it, there's a dear. Tweet."

The Barmaid nodded vaguely and started to turn away, before appearing to change her mind. "He makes a funny sort of noise though, doesn't he?" she said absently, turning back to Ludwig. Ludwig quickly put down his glass – he had been about to upend it over Pierre to stop him talking – and made a valiant attempt at a slightly questioning smile.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, as Pierre bit him on the finger.

"He's a cuckoo," she repeated. "I thought they made more of a… you know, a _cuckoo_ sort of noise."

"Fuckin' _cuckoo_ then," Pierre growled, and The Barmaid departed, still with that dreamy smile plastered stupidly across her face. "Smashing knockers on that one," he observed when she had gone.

"Are you mad?" Ludwig hissed. "You can't just… talk to humans like that. You'll draw attention to-"

"To what?" the bird interrupted. "The fact that I'm _such a beautiful boy_," he imitated breathily. It was more than a little unnerving, having the barmaid's voice echoed back at him by the foul-mouthed creature. "Don't worry about it, princess; humans are stupid. They believe what they want to believe, and hear what they want to hear. Everyone knows that birds can't talk. Cuckoo."

The Barmaid had returned. She set down a saucer of birdseed – god knows where it had come from – and a matching one of whiskey. Pierre thanked her and she wandered off, glassy eyed. Ludwig watched her go.

"You did something to her, didn't you?" he said shrewdly. Pierre, busily gobbling up his birdseed, only shrugged. It was no secret that their shady French employer was an avid dabbler in the occult – how couldn't he be? No one in this day and age made their living solely off selling clocks. He might look like a bird, but just what exactly Pierre _was_ had always been something of a mystery. Ludwig had found that with this sort of thing it was usually better not to ask.

"Hey, Gilbert," he said instead, reaching over Pierre to give his brother's shoulder a brief shake. Gilbert came to with a groan, a line of drool at the corner of his mouth. He propped himself up on his elbows and ruffled his hair sleepily.

"What now?" he yawned.

Well, at least he seemed a little more sober now. Grimly, Ludwig pushed the now slightly crumpled square of paper towards him. Gilbert snatched it up and peered blearily at it.

"'Darling Gilbert'," he read, adopting a shockingly awful French accent. "'An old friend of yours is back in town and simply _dying_ to see you. Transport to London has been arranged; first-class, of course. Antonio sends his love and says he hopes your aim has improved. See you soon. _Kisses_.'" Gilbert looked up at Ludwig with an expression of utter disbelief and revulsion. "'Post script: Tell Ludwig to check his pockets before he leaves. That charming barmaid has stolen his purse.' Did she really?"

Ludwig obediently checked his pockets. Sure enough, his coin purse was missing. "Looks like it." They had long given up on trying to explain how Francis knew the things he knew. "So, London. Are we going?"

Gilbert snorted and balled the paper in his fist. "Not bloody likely. Those English bastards do fine on their own, or so they tell me whenever I have to go over there and haul them out of hell by the skin of their ungrateful arses. They'll do fine this time, too." He wouldn't meet Ludwig's eyes as he said it, though, and Ludwig knew that he didn't even believe it himself. Gilbert had avoided England in general and London in particular like the plague for close to ten years now. He had never told Ludwig what had happened the last time he had gone back there; in those days, Ludwig had still been too young to Hunt with him. Whatever it was, Ludwig had the feeling that it was the root of the brokenness that had claimed his brother's mind. He didn't want to think about how many lives might have been lost because Gilbert could not face the past, and by the look in his eyes, he would wager that Gilbert felt the same. Just what had he been running from, for all these years?

"An old friend," Ludwig said, eying his brother carefully. "What did he mean by that, Gilbert?"

Gilbert looked at him then, his eyes cold and dull. "Nothing," he said, standing up, the message still clenched in his fist. "I'm going to find us a bed."

Ludwig watched him go. "What did I tell you?" he said to Pierre.

"Just wait," slurred the bird, who was now on his back in the seed saucer. "The Frog said 'see you soon', didn't he? Smarmy bastard he may be, but no liar."

"Don't underestimate my brother's stubbornness."

"Whatever," said the bird, and promptly began to snore. Ludwig sighed, scooped him up and tucked him into his jacket pocket, shouldered his gun and went to join Gilbert at the bar.

The Barmaid smiled at him as he approached. Her smile lessened somewhat when he slammed the very large, very deadly gun onto the bar in in front of her and wordlessly held out his hand. She blushed and produced his coin purse from a secure location that absolutely escaped Ludwig's notice and had absolutely nothing to do with her remarkably tight bodice. He took it without a word and tucked it away in the pocket that was not currently occupied by a comatose bird, nodded to the girl, and turned to find the old possibly-mayor standing beside him looking apologetic.

"On the subject of payment," the old man began nervously. Ludwig held up a hand.

"No payment," he said firmly. While the man bowed and stammered out his thanks, Ludwig stepped around him and found Gilbert, who had been watching the whole exchange with great amusement.

"There's a room over the bar that we can have," he told Ludwig. "If you don't mind the smell of vinegar." Ludwig couldn't have cared less if the room had smelled like goose-dung. The prospect of a bed, in any shape, form or odour, was the best thing he could imagine just now. He gestured for Gilbert to lead the way.

"Why don't we get paid for this, again?" Gilbert asked as they climbed the painfully narrow set of steps hidden at the back of the bar.

"We do," Ludwig reminded him.

"Well yeah, by Francis. But it's not his fucking French skin we have to save, is it. What does he get out of it?"

"You're asking me? You've known him longer than I have."

"Yeah, long enough to know he's a pain in my ass." Gilbert paused and shot a sidelong glance at Ludwig, who raised an eyebrow. "Shut up, that was one time."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were certainly thinking it pretty fucking loudly!" They reached the top of the staircase and Gilbert shouldered his way into the promised room. Ludwig followed him in, grinning.

He wasn't grinning for long. The room did indeed smell very strongly of vinegar. And tobacco smoke. And cabbage left far too long in the sun. But the bed was sizeable and more or less clean. They collapsed onto it fully clothed, and were soon fast asleep.

.

Ludwig was woken the next morning by a dousing of cold water, followed by a shirt flung unceremoniously at his face.

"On your feet, brother," Gilbert laughed, setting aside the now empty bucket while Ludwig spluttered and cursed. "We have a train to catch!"

Ludwig tore the shirt away from his face and glared ineffectually at his brother. He had scrubbed himself clean and there was a fresh dressing on his shoulder. Gilbert noticed him staring.

"Oh yeah, Greta did a great job," he said by way of explanation. "Very good with her hands, that girl. It's a shame you missed out, really. Maybe next time. Get dressed, we're leaving!"

With that he disappeared out the door and Ludwig heard him clatter down the stairs.

"He's fucking chipper this morning, innit he?" said Pierre, his voice somewhat muffled by the fact that he was still stuffed into Ludwig's pocket. Ludwig fished him out, and the bird glared at him. "Fuckin' told you so, didn't I?"

Ludwig had to admit that he had. "What changed his mind?"

"Fucked if I know. Maybe the girl with the smashing knockers shagged some sense into him."

Ludwig doubted that, somehow. He left the bird groaning on the bed and found the second bucket his brother had charitably left him, this one full. He washed his face as best he could, then peeled off the remains of his shirt and did the same for his shoulders and chest. The shirt Gilbert had thrown at him was slightly damp and smelled faintly of compost, but it fit well enough. He wadded the other into a ball and left it by the buckets.

"Coming with us, Pierre, or flying home?" he asked as he shrugged into his jacket.

"Fuck flying," Pierre groaned. Ludwig scooped him up and set him on his shoulder. "It's been ages since I've travelled first-class," the bird monologued as they made their way down the stairs. "Schnapps and nibbles all the way to London. Oh yes. Now that's the life for a bird. Or it might be, if we weren't going to _fucking London_. Chirp," he added as they passed The Barmaid (Greta, apparently), who was wiping down the bar. She gave Pierre an odd look. "I mean, fuck, _cuckoo_."

Greta smiled. "Beautiful boy," she crooned. "I'll be sorry to see you go. You too, handsome," she added, winking at Ludwig.

"Smashing knockers," said Pierre, in Ludwig's voice. Her eyes widened.

Ludwig had never run so fast in his life.

* * *

**Ludwig, your gayness can be seen from space. Thanks for reading and reviewing, and also for putting up with a hellishly long wait between updates. I hope it was worth it! Next chapter: Feliciano.**


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